


The Curse of the Little Mermaid

by Darkravenwrote



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry, Blow Jobs, Curses, HP: EWE, M/M, Merman Draco, Post-Canon, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, underwater kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2649299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkravenwrote/pseuds/Darkravenwrote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with an itch, which rapidly devolves into Potter asking what 'in the name of McGonagall's pantaloons' he is doing in a pond. Things can only get better from there, right?</p>
<p>Or</p>
<p>For this prompt on HpCreatures for Halloween '14: Draco is turned into a mermaid (old family curse?), and somehow this is an adaptation of Disney's The Little Mermaid without being an AU... XD </p>
<p>With these additions: flangst, smut, cuteness, romance, love, UNDERWATER KISSING!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curse of the Little Mermaid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmoretteHD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmoretteHD/gifts).



> A/N: Where the hell did that word count come from? I swear when I plotted all the scenes out, it was only meant to be about 7/8k...Well, that didn't happen. So I actually really love this piece. There's still a few things I'd like to change, but it's still my baby. It's the first thing I've actually liked that I've written in a very long time. The last little section isn't beta'd yet but I'll change it and amend this note as soon as it's done. Also, tags! Help? If there's anything else you think I should tag, shout out :D
> 
> Thanks: Special thanks go out to my artist izzie_frutas, who is amazing. You can find the art below in the fic but I'll also add the art link in with the pic. Please go send her some love, she's been amazing. Also, to my beta, Mallo, who was so supportive and I literally don't think I could have done this without her. Shout out to the fabulous mod who runs hpcreatures - also one of the nicest people on the internet and a great friend. And lastly, big hug goes to Amorette for the prompt, I read it and I just knew I had to have it - getting around the whole 'not AU' thing was a bit of a challenge though, I'll be honest.
> 
> Standard disclaimer applies as always.

It starts with an itch on the side of his upper, left thigh. It feels hard and swollen like an angry insect bite when he scratches it, which is odd because he hasn't left his study in two days. He orders Dippy to clean the room – and his bed upstairs for good measure – summons a cooling balm he'd brewed for the Ministry's fever outbreak last month and turns his attention back the letter he's writing to the _Prophet_ to try and limit the scandal of Pansy's latest beau.

He reapplies the balm after his leisurely soak in the bath that night, vows to brew a healing version of his nationally nominated ' _Best Household Potion of the Year'_ , Bug-Be-Gone in the morning and slips between the crisp, fresh sheets for a good night's rest. He sleeps fitfully amidst nightmares of things crawling over his face and arms and legs. And when the sun peeks weakly through his window, it glistens off of the sweat dripping from his skin. His fingers are bloody when he rubs the grit from his eyes, and he stares aghast at his crimson fingers for a moment – before the fiery pain on the side of his upper left thigh shocks his brain awake.

When he tears the red-speckled, thin summer sheets from his legs, he finds raw skin scraped until bloody. His usually pale thigh is a furious dark pink under the red, pin-prick bumps raised beside the grazes irritatedly. And still there is a hard, raised centre, but now he can see it is pale, like a shard of glass puncturing his flesh.

His fingers scrabble messily for the wand under his pillow, but when it is in his hand, he realises he has no idea what he plans to do with it. He cleanses the bright red from his fingers for want of something to do and then his sheets because it looks ugly against the green – reminds him of slaughter on fresh grass. Then he forces his hands to his sides, grasps the cool material and tries to calm down – think logically, form a strategy.

He hasn't miscast recently, and his last brew was three days ago, which is far too long for side-effects to be rearing their heads now. He isn't allergic to anything he's come into contact with recently – even in his supply room – and he hasn't changed the supplier for his ingredients. It could be a nasty insect from the East Wing – which hasn't been cleared out since his great grandfather's demise – but it seems unlikely as no one goes there and his suite is about as far as geographically possible from there without moving out into the gardens.

He should probably see a healer or a curse-breaker – because a curse from Anti-Redemptionists is a very real possibility – but then he'd have to ask for permission to leave the Manor, with all the paperwork such a request entails, and he isn't very keen on the Ministry poking its nose into his business. It's bad enough when he's doing his Redemption hours in their sub par basement of a laboratory with a nitwit Auror-in-training scowling over his shoulder the whole time.

But wait! If he can live with it until Monday, he can sneak in a medical meeting while his guard nips out for lunch. Pansy owes him multiple favours for keeping her out of the burning hot spotlight so there won't be an issue getting her to organise it for him – he just needs to remind her she doesn't want the papers raining hellfire on her now for shopping in Diagon Alley when mentioning blood purity can earn you a year in Azkaban. (Some people are being so touchy about the whole thing but he supposed this is their lot for being on the losing side.) And if the healer knows of a curse where one grows glass the colour of infection from inside one’s skin, well then the whole thing can be put to rest.

Draco jabs his wand at the wound to clear up the new seepage with a sigh, calls for his usual morning tea and resigns himself to four days of brewing cooling balm with only shouting at his house-elves for entertainment.

He doesn't make it to Monday.

* * *

Harry is halfway to the departmental lobby when Robards' signature bellowing huff of his name echoes from behind him. He sighs and thinks wistfully of the Shepherd’s Pie Hermione has waiting for him to sample. He turns as slowly as he can politely get away with, reluctant and practised to the nanosecond, because it is impossible to ignore that tone – the very reason Head Auror Robards uses it.

“Ah, good, I hoped I'd catch you before you left,” he says breezily, as Harry ambles back to stand at a lazy attention in front of him. He makes it sound like they're two mates on their way to the pub after a long shift, not a boss catching an employee sneaking from the inevitable last-to-leave overtime duty. Unfortunately, when Harry glances at Zabini's filing corner, even he's gone for the night, and if the brown-nosing Redeemer has packed it in for the day, then Harry's definitely doomed.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he asks, fully aware that it will be something case-related and likely to take several hours, otherwise Robards would have sent an urgent memo to the night-patrol headquarters on the floor below.

“Always so eager to help, good, good.” _'Not eager,'_ Harry wants to argue, _'resigned.'_ But he keeps himself quiet, waiting expectantly for his assignment. It used to disconcert Harry how Robards' mood could change as quickly as a Snitch mid-game. But over the years, he's learned it gives Robards an element of power over the people around him; they're always watching their step like they're tiptoeing around a hippogriff dozing on a nest of licorice snaps. “I was wondering if you could pop over to the old Malfoy place on your way home.”

Aside from the fact that Malfoy Manor is set in the middle of Wiltshire and exactly opposite of 'on his way home,' and that Harry would rather wrestle Greyback wandless than go in that house again, the thinly-veiled order has to be one of the most bizarre he's ever received. What interest could Robards possibly have in Malfoy that warranted a highly-trained Auror to log overtime? Most plausibly, the stupid git had gotten himself involved with something illegal and was making a nuisance of himself. But, as much as he hates to admit it, Harry's had tabs on Malfoy Junior since he knew that 'tabs' and 'informants' were a thing and there hasn't been even a whisper of wrongdoings from his direction since the war. Certainly not since he voluntarily enrolled in the Redemption scheme.

He settles on asking, “Sir?” and leaves it at that. His confusion is written all over his face so there's no need to say more.

“You're one of my most trustworthy men, Potter,” Robards begins, rocking lightly on his toes to give the impression that he's leaning in conspiratorially. “And the truth is I'd rather keep this hush-hushed for reputation's sake,” which doesn't sound reassuring in Harry's mind. Harry's always thought of Robards as one of the furthest it is possible to get from dirty, but stranger things have happened. For instance, the fact that, much to his friends' dismay, he is now living with a Redeemer – as they are now legally obliged to call them.

“No need to look so worried, Potter,” Robards interrupts Harry's rampant thoughts. “I'm not going to ask you to blow Malfoy up for missing a brewing session.” Immediately, Harry feels guilty for even suspecting him of being anything less than sparkling clean.

“Missing a brew, sir?”

“Ah, yes, right. Well, his voluntary contract stipulates he needs to give notice and valid reasoning if he's going to miss a day of service. All of the Redemption contracts do. But he's the first to break it.” 

Harry waits, still curious as to why Robards would be invested. Hermione would know, probably from some article in the _Prophet_ about the political turnabout; he's stopped reading it since the _Potter's Particulars_ column on the front page started waxing poetic about the stubble he experimented with two years ago.

“And as this whole thing was my idea,” Robards continues, “it'd be rather embarrassing if it all went tits up now. So if you wouldn't mind getting him to fill out this Binary Absence Request Form then we can all forget it ever happened and be on our way, no records tarnished.” Which explains why Robards wants such a small matter dealt with quickly and in the dark.

Since its inception a little under a year ago, the Reintegration of Erstwhile Death Eaters and Evil Management Program – codename Redemption – has been working like a charm, despite Theo's near constant grumbling about how boring alphabetising in the Hall of Prophecy is. So Harry can understand Robards' eagerness to sweep even the most innocent dust bunny under the rug.  
“I'll sort it for you, sir,” Harry says, in his best reassuring tone, the one he uses on worried citizens even if, no, he's not at all confident he can stop the raging Griffin actually.

“Good, good,” Robards booms, obviously pleased. It's his usual informal dismissal, very unlike the rough 'out' he uses in the confines of his office at the conclusion of briefings or reports. Harry hops to it when a bushy brow raises encouragingly in his direction.

He heads straight for the Floos to make a call. He could Apparate but truth be told, he'd rather not step foot in that old place that reeks of lingering, ingrained dark magic if he can help it. It isn't worth the nightmares Theo will bodily kick him out of bed over. And he's been told pure-bloods have a bit of a thing about unannounced, uninvited guests. He can always owl the BARF if Malfoy's feeling particularly uncooperative. Then he's done his duty, and if Malfoy goes down the shitter, it's on his own head.

An elf is already waiting for him when the magnificent room appears before him, tinged green around the edges of his vision.

“Mister Harry Potter, sir,” the creature stutters at him. “What can Dippy be doing for you, sir?” Harry notes the blatant lack of the usual hero worship blabbering he gets from most house-elves; it's refreshing, even if it is evidence of Malfoy needling him at every chance he can get his paws on.

“I'd like to speak with your master, please,” Harry replies, trying not to look it directly in the eye as a display of his peaceful intentions - although he thinks pure-bloods spread that rumour so their house-elves had more power over the interactions with their guests rather than because it’s rude.

“Master Draco is not available now, sir.” It stares at him balefully, like that's the end of it and he should be leaving now. It's not. And Harry shuffles his knees on the cushion on his side of the grate until he's more comfortable, feeling like he's hunkering down for a fight.

“He'd better be on his deathbed then?” Harry half asks, half threatens. The house elf shuffles its feet, and Harry entertains himself by guessing its gender while he waits. He doesn’t come up with an answer.

“Master Draco is grievously ill,” the elf rephrases, which is slightly odd but it's what Harry came to find out so he isn't particularly bothered.

“I'll be owling you some absence forms,” Harry says, through the satisfied grimness of his smile. “Anyone can fill them out so long as Malfoy signs them.”

The elf nods eagerly, glancing around. For the first time, Harry realises how skittish it's been throughout their conversation, even for a house-elf – wringing its hands, constantly moving its feet, eyes darting and ears pricked.

But it's late, probably paranoia on Harry's part, and his stomach is rumbling demandingly when his thoughts go fleetingly to Hermione's Shepherd’s pie – and Theo's annoyed scowl where he's waiting beside the steaming plate. “Bid your master well and a speedy recovery from me,” he says for courtesy's sake and tacks on a hasty, “and I'll expect those forms on my desk by morning,” as an afterthought. Then he retreats back through the grate, brushes off his robes as he stands and heads down the silence corridors to the owlery.

* * *

“You're late.” Theo is waiting for him in the kitchen when Harry slides through the back door of their little cottage, soaked through from the surprising but relentless April shower. Theo is leaning against the table, sipping from a mug of what smells like strong coffee – Harry can bet with some certainty that it's Irish, as it often is when he's done something wrong. He's trying to appear casual, the lines of his long body – a gangliness from his youth he still hasn't quite outgrown – relaxed and exaggerated, but his eyes are unwavering on Harry's face and his fingers are white because they're grasping his ugly, brown mug so tight.

“Had to run an errand for Robards before I could escape,” he replies, knowing he's guilty of being short with Theo, but he knows where this is going. It's an old argument which consists of Theo vying for more attention even though Harry told him from the beginning how important his job is to him. Their arrangement has always been uneven, but Theo's a Slytherin taking advantage of an impermanent situation. They both know it. It's only over the last few weeks that Harry's started being labelled as the villain at the end of every discussion.

“Maybe if you came home on time once in a while you wouldn't need to escape.”

“It's no big deal, Theo,” Harry sighs, stripping off his sopping robes; the shirt underneath is slightly damp, but he'll ignore it until the wind has died from Theo's snit – he's learned to pick his battles carefully. “You know paperwork's a bitch after a big case, and he only wanted me to make a quick firecall.”

“A firecall,” Theo glares back. “You missed dinner – which was lovely, by the way, thank you for asking – and left me at the mercy of your disapproving friends' small talk for a firecall.” He's clearly unimpressed. It's strange for him to be so outwardly fierce, jaw grinding and eyebrows raising intermittently as he's voicing his disbelief. But he's become more aggressively possessive recently too. “That's what you've been working so hard for? To be his little messenger boy?”

“Do we have to get into this now, Theo? I'm wet and tired and hungry. Can't we talk about it in the morning?”

“Except we won't, will we? No, Harry, I think we should talk about this right now.”

“It was just a bloody firecall!”

“This time it was a firecall. Last time it was paperwork. And the time before that, filing. What about next time? And the time after that? You're never here anymore, Harry. I never see you anymore!”

“You know my work's important to me-”

“And I could put up with that...when it was getting you somewhere! But what has it got you? A receptionist position under a boss who's holding you back.”

Harry knows what usually comes next. It's the speech about how he's better than that – how he could do so much better if he just had the drive and the backbone. He jumps in quickly to sidetrack that line of thinking.

“At least it's proof he trusts me,” which appeases Theo slightly, if the moody but thoughtful huff is anything to go by – an admission that Harry's made a valid point. “Look,” Harry murmurs, edging closer to Theo's side and hoping he'll drop the subject even if only out of pity. “I know things have been rough on you lately. I _have_ been busy with this extremist group case. And your service can't be a picnic right now after the accident,” - an understatement. Fuzzbeard is still furious two weeks after Theo's mishap - “but my case is over and people will forget some meaningless orb got broken. You'll see.”

Theo is still scowling into the nothingness visible out of the window, and his lips are so tight they've almost disappeared in on themselves. But he doesn't push Harry away when his fingertips brush his tense arm, and he doesn't flick his head away agitatedly when Harry nudges his nose against Theo's cheek.

There is a tense moment or two nonetheless. Until-

“I left a plate for you by the sink.” It's a blaring white flag being shoved in Harry's face, and he snatches it up with a peck of his lips on Theo's.

“I'm sorry I was late,” Harry whispers, later when they're curled up on the sofa, Theo reading and Harry writing an owl apologising to Hermione.

“What was so special about this firecall for Robards to send you especially, oh great protector?” Theo asks, his voice muffled by sleep and the pages he is barely reading from anymore.

“Nothing special. Just Malfoy acting up.”

Theo doesn't answer immediately, and if Harry had any reason to suspect it, he'd say the silence is loaded, something heavy settling in the air around them. His gut thrums forebodingly.

But, finally, his legs very decidedly uncurling to settle across Harry's lap, all Theo says is, “Oh.”

* * *

Harry makes sure to join the evening shuffle towards the lobby the next night at precisely five o'clock when his shift ends. He feels a little like he's being squeezed through the corridor in a herd of cattle, but at least it allows him to strategically duck behind old Ferris Wheeler, who is doddering along in front of him and under his feet, when he spies Robards striding purposefully from the other direction. Harry is instantly sure he's being searched out; the guilt is almost overwhelming enough for him to call out. This is his job, for Circe's sake, and sneaking out of the office on time feels dishonest, Slytherin even.

But his truce with Theo is tentative and fragile at the moment – his tea that morning only had one sugar; Harry hadn't had the nerve to add a second under the threatening power of Theo's narrowed eyes – and he doesn't really want to test the new boundaries of his ire by being late again. The memory of Theo’s upset scowl the night before has him hunching his shoulders a little more.

He's almost reached his destination, an eagerness building in his belly like a child skipping class, when Tanya Fairchild's unmistakable buxom bosom blocks his way. He tries not to scowl too hard at said cleavage – Tanya's renowned Ministry-wide for being sensitive about her figure, but loud with her opinions – and aims for a smooth sidestep. Unfortunately, she follows, confirming Harry's suspicions.

“Head Auror Robards would like to see you now, Auror Potter,” she informs him perkily, her blonde curls bouncing with every chirrup. Her sweet liveliness makes Harry's teeth ache, and the way she emphasises their titles makes his teeth grind – not a good combination. Most people would assume she was trying to remind them of their place on the food chain, but Harry knows otherwise – she is actually reminding him of _her_ position. The truth is, she's Robards' personal assistant and if he tells her 'no', however politely, it will get back to his boss. He calculates the odds of Robards requiring him for another small errand, which are good at this time, and decides if he's quick about it he can still get home to Theo earlier than usual.

“Lead on, then, please, Ms Fairchild.” He smiles, sweeping his arm graciously and nearly knocking poor Wheeler over, whom has gained all of a foot during their interaction. Harry can't decided if he's a nosy coot or if he legitimately is that slow.

He feels a little like a suspect being brought in for questioning as he's led back to the offices, and certainly the way he's skulking behind Fairchild must look odd, but his mood is souring with every step, and he can't help it. Robards' office is on the far side of the bull-pit to the escape corridor; a strategic placement so anyone forced to endure the walk of shame – usually with a faux strut and nervous twitch – to face their maker can be watched by everyone's beady eyes for as long as possible so all onlookers can properly wallow in their misery.

Fairchild ushers him in after briefly poking her head through the door. She looks self-satisfied and her cheeks are dusted pink – Harry surmises that Robards has complimented her work and added fuel to the fire of her raging crush. He slips past her quickly, trying not to accidentally think of any disturbing images.

Robards' office is much the same as it usually is whenever he is ordered in to pick up his new assignments: impeccably clean and scrupulously alphabetised. Even the stack of parchment on his desk is without a single crease and perfectly parallel to both corner edges. Robards himself looks large and imposing in his chair, back stiff and hands still in front of him.

Harry isn't invited to sit, so he lingers awkwardly beside the chair, feeling like he's eleven again and about to be scolded by McGonagall.

“What was Malfoy's excuse then, Potter?” Robards barrels straight to the point.

“I didn't speak with him, sir,” Harry replies, hastily continuing when Robards' left eyebrow twitches towards his hairline, “His house elf claimed him 'grievously ill'. And I had no reason to suspect otherwise nor a warrant to inspect any oddities, sir.”

“Well, I want you back there tonight, Potter,” Robards orders, his gaze wandering to his desk – a sign he is restless or losing interest in the conversation, probably both. From the way he’s stilled, though, Harry can tell it’s his way of indicating a dismissal without reverting to a strict order – Harry could kick up a bureaucratic nightmare if he decided he should be paid extra for these after hours tasks, so it’s in Robards’ best interests to stay friendly with him.

“He didn't show again, sir?” 

“No,” Robards grinds through his clenched teeth when it becomes clear Harry isn’t going to take his hint and wander out blind.. “I should have known it was too good to be true when that little pest _volunteered_ for my project.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Harry ventures daringly, “wouldn't it be better to send his handler to analyse the situation?”

“What? Little Gertrude Lilypicket? Don't be silly, Potter. She couldn't stand up to him if the life of her first born depended on it. And I don't trust his Auror guard to scratch his own arse let alone handle my reputation. He's one of those reassigned night officers, you know, not one of our own. No, no, Potter, it has to be you.”

“I'm fairly confident his elf will deny me entry again, sir, but-”

“No, no, none of that time-wasting balderdash this time around. Here's your warrant.”

The parchment he passes to Harry is folded closed and sealed with wax and the Ministry's stamp so the words are hidden from his prying eyes, but it must grant extensive access judging by its thickness. He scurries from the room before Robards' token dismissal can hit him on the way out.

He fleetingly thinks about owling Theo, but there's not really any point. It's half five now, and if he's quick he can be done and home by half six, which is early compared to some of his usual hours. The idea is forgotten by the time he arrives at his favourite Floo, cushion already conjured and in his hand.

The same house-elf as last time greets him when the Manor materialises before him, still startlingly intense and frustratingly androgynous. Harry blinks up at it for a second, absently wondering whether its sole duty is to waylay unsuspecting guests in its fireplace.

“Good evening,” he begins, because experience has taught him that pristine manners before parading an invasive warrant in someone's face can sometimes soften the blow. “I'd like to speak with Draco Malfoy, please.” He tries to be as direct and specific as possible – another tip he picked up for dealing with disagreeable house-elves, particularly pure-blood ones; last time he'd ended up staring down the prehistoric painting of a great great great grandfather while his suspect escaped into their Avery.

“Master Draco is unavailable at this time,” it tells him, and it may be Harry's imagination, but he thinks it's being snippy with him. “Master Draco is-”

“'Grievously ill,' yes, so I've been told. Unfortunately, unless you can give me some details, I've got a warrant here that allows me access to this property and all of its occupants,” Harry says in his sternest Auror voice – although the effect is somewhat lessened by the fact that he's currently looking up at the house elf.

“Master is _grievously_ ill, sir,” it replies, scandalised. Harry can see right through it though, and the way it is suddenly refusing to meet his eyes. House-elves, ordinary run-of-the-kitchen ones anyway, aren't equipped to outright lie.

Harry sighs into the ash around him and shoves his hand with the parchment in it into the flames, closing his eyes against the uncomfortable sensation of being sucked through after it; his Auror Trainer would smack him upside the head for doing so, but Malfoy can't afford to attack him – although if he did, this monotonous mess wouldn't be Harry's problem anymore.

“What does your master call you?” Harry asks because studies have shown that while house-elves respond best to an authoritative figure, niceties can still get you far.

“Dippy, Harry Potter, sir,” it says, tilting its chin up at Harry in a way that makes Harry think Malfoy Junior must have trained this one personally.

“Well, Dippy, where is your master right now?” To Harry's shock, rather than snivelling that its ill master is wallowing melodramatically in bed, it chomps down on its lower lip so hard Harry thinks blood will spill onto its pointed chin any second. “Dippy,” he reiterates lowly, fluttering his warrant in the dry, still air of the room. Everything looks like it costs a month's worth of his salary, every inch of stitching a glowing silver against black fabrics and dark wood.

“Master Draco is...that is...” Dippy stutters for a while through its quivering lips. Harry stares down at it patiently.

“Dippy?” Harry prompts once more, which seems to do the trick because Dippy falls to its knees and wails, tears soaking its cheeks.

“Master Draco is in the pond, Harry Potter, sir,” it finally sobs, tiny shoulders trembling. It emphasises the word so clearly, there is no possible way Harry has misheard, but he still stands there stupidly for several minutes, jaw loose and mouth open.

“Excuse me?” he manages as professionally as he can, once he has remembered what words are. “He's in the _what?_ ” Because this is completely ridiculous, even for Malfoy.

“Across the hall,” Dippy whimpers hopelessly, a hand flapping floppily towards the only door in the room. Harry pats Dippy awkwardly on the shoulder, not really sure what the etiquette is for this situation, and then slides from the room as quickly as he can.

The entrance hall he steps into is blindingly bright with columns and a grand staircase befitting of a family as politically and socially ambitious as the Malfoys. Opposite him is a wide archway with what looks like a glass room on the other side. A sun room, he decides, shielding his eyes from the refracting redness of sunset streaming in through the crystal glass. He glances around for a way outside, the intensity of all the flickering light bewildering his senses, until he spots a wavering in the glass on his right. He stops carefully in front of it, fingers grazing the liquid surface while he stares outside.

A pure white peacock is strutting along the shore of the pond – which is more akin to a giant lake – he supposes he is searching for pecking at lily pads and clawing at the lush grass.

He considers the danger, remembering the report on the Manor from after the war claiming 'remnants of dark magic' still existed but 'no current or recent illegal activity' could be found. His finger swiping purposefully across the surface makes ripples dance away from his touch, but there's no zapping or excruciating pain, only the feeling of his fingertip getting wet. He stokes the flames of his Gryffindor fire and shoves his whole hand through. The air is colder on the other side, and the late evening air raises goosebumps on the skin of his exposed wrist. Harry launches himself through before he can think better of it, free hand ready at his wand.

Things are...different outside. For one thing, there's no peacock going about its business. The grass leading to the bank is darker and patchy here and there. And the water itself is murky and dull, more greenish-brown than the bright blue reflecting sunset like it looked from inside. It's still the same size though, the banks extending far off in both directions. The stillness of this place reminds him of the Black Lake and all the danger it keeps hidden like precious secrets beneath its surface.

To his left is a large willow tree at a precarious angle on the bank, its vines draping luxuriously in the water. And in its giant shadow, arms and back resting on the grassy bank, like a child in a mother's embrace, is Malfoy.

What Harry should do is march straight back to Robards and inform him that Malfoy has been skipping his Redemption hours in favour of getting a tan. Yes, he should do that, really. Instead, he finds himself standing next to the willow and stating, “You're in a pond,” because Harry is nothing if not helpful, and Malfoy may actually have lost any remaining marbles and not realise this fact.

“Astute as ever, Potter,” a very sane sounding Malfoy replies, not bothering to open his eyes or twitch a single muscle.

“But why?” Harry persists, because he's an Auror, damn it, and he doesn’t like the feeling of the ground being swept out from under him.

“I couldn't possibly tell you, Potter. It's a closely guarded family secret,” Malfoy sidesteps neatly, his eyes rolling dramatically as he sinks further into the water. It just draws Harry's attention straight to the fact that he's shirtless, his nipples pebbling at the lapping waterline before they disappear below the surface. Harry shivers delicately under his layers of clothing, a ghost of sensation that brushes down his own chest.

“Seriously,” Harry says flatly once he's dragged his eyes back to Malfoy's face, “you expect me to believe that.” Malfoy's head lolls back and away from Harry, staring off down the shoreline like Harry isn't worth his attention. “I don't sense any magic, and my gut tells me you're hiding something. My gut's never wrong, Malfoy,” and Harry can see Malfoy's eyes wandering back in his direction. “What in the name of McGonagall's pantaloons are you doing in a pond?”

“Well, if anyone could walk in and sense the power of these waters, it wouldn't be a very good secret,” Malfoy sniffs, pointed nose aloft, “now would it?”

“I'm not just anyone,” Harry says adamantly, pride smarting.

“No, you're an insufferable Auror with a nose too big for his own good – and his face, I might add – and an ego to match.”

“Ego? You bloody hypocrite!” Harry snaps back before he can stop himself. Even as he says it, he hears how the conversation is devolving into a children's squabble – not that that's anything new for them. “Who the hell do you think you're talking to?”

“A self-absorbed prick with too many biceps and too little m-”

“Is there a way for me to arrest you for indecent verbal assault to an officer of the law?” Harry asks sarcastically, trying to show as many teeth in his snarl as possible; it's an effort to cover his blush at the heavily veiled whiff of compliment buried in Malfoy' rejoinder.

“You tell me, you're the law.” Malfoy shrugs, water slopping up to his angular collar bones, as he disappears a few more inches, but at least he finally swings his gaze round to meet Harry's like a proper adult. “Besides, indecent? Who's the one with the dirty mind here? I was only going to say 'too little mind.'” Harry doesn't think he's imagining the twinkle in Malfoy's pale eyes, as he smirks up at him. His damp hair is messy on his forehead and longer than Harry has ever seen it.

“Enough of this, Malfoy,” Harry grudges, dragging the topic bodily away from himself and back to the reason he's risking Theo's ire. “I know you're trying to distract me with this pissing contest.” He pauses for a second to flash his warrant warningly. “Firstly, Robards sent me himself. He wants to know why his favourite pet project hasn't shown up for his hours the last two days.” He stops again, generously providing Malfoy with one final opportunity to come clean about the whole...whatever's going on.

When Malfoy stays silent, instead of being a mature adult about it, Harry can't help but bait Malfoy right back. “Secondly, while, yes, my biceps are impressive, I'll assure you my 'mind' is even more so,” and Godric have mercy on his soul, Harry's actually flirting with the little shit. The realisation immediately makes him regret trying to play a master annoyance at his own game. Red-faced – he can feel the stain of shame spreading across his heated cheeks – he reverts back to his original tack with all the subtlety of an insulted Hippogriff. “And, thirdly, why the flaming _fuck_ are you in pond?”

“Must you Gryffindors find innuendo in every conversation,” Malfoy replies, attention wandering again and quite obviously avoiding anything meaningful. But if he wants Harry off his lawn, he's going to have to address the subject at some point. He continues, while Harry remains doggedly rooted to the spot with his temper for company, “So unnecessary, utterly brutish, if you ask me.”

“Good thing that's not what I'm asking you, then, isn't it?” Harry snipes back, his right foot actually tapping.

“Has anyone ever told you you're like a Crup with a slipper?” Malfoy considers him, somehow still managing to look down his pointy nose at Harry even though he's currently neck deep in muddy water and at about shin height. Then he amends quickly, “Only about three hundred times less cute.”

What Harry means to say is, 'Cut the meandering bullshit,’ because even though the sides of his mouth are drifting upwards, he’s still notoriously hot-tempered and impatient. What actually whips off his affronted tongue is, “I'll have you know I'm plenty cute.” He's not quite sure why he's still allowing himself to be dragged around in this conversation like a rag doll – a survival reflex around Malfoy perhaps? - because it's certainly no fun having his ego batted around. Although, the smile reflected dimly back at him when he glances down at the water to recollect himself says otherwise.

His attention, if not his wits, is drawn back to Malfoy saying snidely, “I'm sure that's the last thing Theo tells you every night. He never did have any taste.” From the disgusted crinkle of his nose, Harry would bet his wand that that's code for, 'he shot me down in school.'

“Can we leave my boyfriend out of this,” because for one thing the mention of Theo has suddenly dampened Harry's spirits and for another, if that comment doesn't make him feel fifteen again and arguing in a potions classroom then nothing will. “Theo's taste is just fine,” he mumbles as an afterthought, more because it's what a dutiful boyfriend should do – jumping to Theo's defence – than for himself.

“And I bet he also tells you that bird's nest you call hair is one of your most charming features. You probably believe him too, gullible prick.”

“You're seriously getting on my tits now, Malfoy,” Harry snarls because, as titillating as their little game is, he's got a touchy boyfriend waiting to be placated at home and a Tempus charm running out of minutes on his wrist. “You. Pond. Why?”

“Not everything is your business, you know,” Malfoy says, blasé as ever, examining his fingernails. “I told you I'm in a sodding healing pond, ergo,” he pauses to swipe a wet hand through his hair before staring back up at Harry, expression utterly bored, “you can surmise I am ill. I'll fill out your damn form and owl it to you. Happy?” His smile is less sincere than a Dementor promising clemency. Then he says, alarmingly sugar sweet, “now get the hell off of my property.”

Technically that's all true. And on top of that, in all likelihood, the warrant is only low level – enough to get his foot in the door – otherwise Robards would have had to get one of the duty officers to sign off on it as well. And all his job requires is that form. If Malfoy wants to be a miserable bastard about it, then all that means is Harry can be on his way in twenty minutes rather than thirty. Also, Malfoy’s sudden switch in demeanor is unnerving to say the least, nothing like the teenage Malfoy Harry is familiar with.

“Good day, Malfoy,” he says firmly, ignoring how the glare that's been dawning while Harry was pondering morphs to astonishment, like he'd expected Harry to hound him all night – like Harry doesn't have other, better, things to do.

He tips an imaginary hat to Dippy where it's still wringing its hands, as he strides purposefully past on his way out. His gut's niggling at him as soon as he throws the Floo powder and recites his address. But then Theo is attacking his mouth when he swirls to a stop and he forgets. He feels it again at dinner, the sense that he's missed something, and it makes the centre of his back between his shoulder blades itch. But Theo proves distracting again, first bitching about Fuzzbeard and then re-enacting the dramas of four scheming Redeemers being stuck in one room all day. And then he lets Harry fuck him fast and hard into the mattress.

It isn't until later, when the light from the waning moon dances onto his face and wakes him in the early hours of the morning, that he starts to think about it again, that he tries to replay the events to find what it is that's got his stomach in such a tizz. The moonshine is almost on Theo's pillow by the time he realises, and he wants to smack himself for missing it for so long. Malfoy was shirtless for Merlin's sake. Low in the water, obviously trying to hide it – which should have been even more suspicious if Harry's Auror senses had been working properly – but they were definitely there, wrong against his skin. Two diagonal slashes up both sides of his neck, tearing the pale expanse low, just above his prominent collar bones.

* * *

Harry tells himself, the next afternoon when he finds himself staring down at the Floo powder in his palm like it could burn through his hand at any second, that this is nothing like sixth year. And even then, he was never _obsessed_ with Malfoy; it was more of a resolute suspicion. He hears Hermione guffawing in his ear at that, but she can shove right off because he'd been right all along. And the same is true now. Malfoy's up to something and he's going to bloody well find out what.

Reservations dismissed, he promptly sends the powder scattering into the fireplace and enunciates his destination before his treacherous brain can come up with other arguments. There is no house-elf waiting for him this time when the green haze of travel clears – which is a shame because he's half formed his opening retort.

He stands uselessly, flapping his arms lightly at his sides as if bidding for attention but unwilling to make any real sound. Then he realises he's an adult, for crying out loud, and an authoritative Auror on top of that. The breath he takes in preparation for his first step towards what will no doubt be another hyped-up pissing contest feels more like the resignation of a soldier walking to his last battle – not an entirely unsuitable analogy.

The clacking of expensive, feminine shoes – although what does he know about prissy purebloods? It could just be Malfoy – stops him before he reaches the door to the sun room.

Pansy Parkinson is a force of nature unto herself, or so Harry has heard from terrified sources in Ministry departments far and wide. In addition to a little long-distance meddling on Malfoy's part, it's the reason she hasn't yet been arrested and dragged, deadly nails scratching and precise, pureblood accent screeching, into the Redemption queue. It's also the reason Harry is reluctant to step willingly into the same room as her.

She looks like she's been raging up a storm recently if poor Dippy is anything to go by; it is currently huddled over its feet, plucking at its toenails like it's thinking about ripping them out in recompense. The dappled flush on Parkinson's neck gives her away too, but Harry is confident if he acknowledges it, he'll leave the Manor with one less testicle.

Dippy spots him before Parkinson, but it looks so pathetic Harry has forgotten any and all retorts he may have prepared. A mournful wail wrenches from its throat unchecked and warbles around the glass room before dying out. Then it begins thumping its tiny hands on its already darkening toes.

Parkinson's alarmed stare, when she spins on the ball of one arched foot to face him, is entirely faux, because it's the reaction he is supposed to suspect, and Parkinson is the most fake woman in all of England. It is well executed though, and Harry thinks she probably enjoyed the long hours it took in front of the mirror, primping and preening, to perfect it.

He raises an eyebrow to let her know where they stand with each other in the situation – not subtle by their standards but maybe this way they can skip all the bull. She shrugs elegantly, her shoulders rolling delicately, and studies him like she's considering which parts of him she'll need for her next brew.

“Malfoy still in the pond?” Harry asks casually, trying not to look like he's sidestepping into the room with his back super-glued to the wall. Parkinson's eyes dart to Dippy where it’s moved on to yanking on its few teeth, then out the window towards the flourishing illusion of the lake. Then her face lights up, delighted.

“You don't know,” she chirrups, gleeful, her pretty hands clapping together like a child a minute past midnight on her birthday. Her eyes are wide and her mouth parted in a picture of real surprise. Then her eyes narrow, bottom lip sucking into her mouth. She considers for a second, and Harry can see some sharp puzzle pieces slotting together in her head, before she continues. “Tell Draco darling I'll expect to receive his owl within the next week, won't you, Auror? There's a dear.” It's utterly condescending and offensive, and Harry half-thinks she'll have the gall to pinch his cheek on her way out, but thankfully, she sweeps out, loud cackles echoing through the empty manor, before he can think to reboot his vocabulary.

Harry can't help feeling like he's missing something.

He hops over one of Dippy's teeth – wonders if he should say something to the elf but his experience is shrugging unhelpfully on his shoulder that there's nothing he can do for an upset house-elf – and strides purposefully to the shimmering glass door. An albino peacock glares up at him balefully from the other side, a little too close for comfort, with its razor sharp beak within tapping distance.

He thinks his sudden nervousness today has more to do with the fact that there is no official reason for him to be here and less to do with the bird's gleaming eyes. Malfoy's BARF had been waiting on his desk, as promised, that morning, with every 'i' dotted and 't' crossed to departmental standards. And Malfoy isn't due back in his shoe box of a lab again for another five days. So Robards, had Harry seen him today, would have had no reason to send him back here. Except...

Harry's interest has been hooked, and it's not stalking if Malfoy is stationary.

“Not that I should do you any favours,” Harry announces himself when he's half way through the faux-glass portal, “but Parkinson gave me a message to pass along on her way out. Said she's expecting your letter by the end of the week, whatever that means.” He shrugs as he trots across the grass like he's subconsciously afraid if he doesn't get all the way outside, Malfoy will chuck him back through the Floo with some ancient protection spell. Malfoy doesn't see the gesture anyway, as he's staring up at the sky distractedly.

“Did she now? Utter cow,” he hisses at the clouds. He doesn't look bothered, but Harry is learning his mannerisms quickly – possibly old memories returning, he admits silently to himself – and he is talking through a clenched jaw even as his mouth enunciates every syllable normally. The gentle throb at the hinge of his jaw gives away his irritation. In fact, if Harry didn't know better, he'd say from the determined relaxation of Malfoy's spine that he and Parkinson had just finished some sort of argument.

“Right, now that that duty is done. What the bloody fuck is going on around here, Malfoy?” Harry asks as pleasantly as he can given the circumstances, which is to say, not very. Because he doesn't like being kept in the dark. Because he knows Malfoy is up to something. Because Parkinson is using him to bait one of her dearest acquaintances. Because Harry likes to make his intentions clear, just in case Malfoy hadn't caught on during their last meeting.

“If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not say. It's rather embarrassing, that's all,” Malfoy replies, dismissively.

“If this entire débâcle has been over a mild case of Hysterical Herpes,” so called because they are hilarious to everyone but their victim, “then I should tell you now, it isn't enough to get you out of your hours.” Harry has to consciously drop his arm back to his side here when he finds his hand halfway to his hip, like Mrs Weasley when she starts on her latest rampage at her boys.

“Do you even know what double H is? There's no such thing as a mild case. And no, what I have would be more called a...” he pauses, fingers circling in the air, trying to find the right name, “...curse than a virus.”

“Well, please, don't stop on my account,” Harry prods helpfully. Malfoy's eyes brush over him, like he is executing an entirely circular eye-roll.

“Usually, I'd ask you to kindly leave me in peace with what remains of my miserable life,” he says slowly, considering Harry out of his peripheral vision. “As it is, I don't like being manipulated, Potter.”

“What? I'm not-” Harry immediately jumps to his own defence, but Malfoy stops him with a raised hand.

“Don't be an inbred idiot, Potter. Not you.” He lowers his hand back into the water, stares at it for a moment, then glides over onto his side so he is facing Harry and states, “Parkinson. I don't appreciate her attempts to manoeuvre me in her favour.” Malfoy purses his lips here, the redness giving way to white. “I'm in rather a sticky spot, you see, and if I'm going to banish her, I'm going to have to find aid elsewhere,” he continues cryptically, answering absolutely none of Harry's questions while sounding like he's explaining the arithmetic behind Gypsum's theory of magical neutrality.

“Me?” Harry hazards, because Malfoy is staring at him meaningfully, irises dark.

“No, the Wand Goblin, of course you, you dolt. I'm on a bit of a time limit. Parkinson's games are going to have to wait. Now will you help me or not, oh saviour?” It's like Malfoy thinks the world will implode if he asks for help sincerely. Maybe pure-bloods teach that to their children so they'll never make real friends, only alliances?

“I don't know. You might have to ask me more nicely than that,” Harry jokes playfully, ignoring the flirtation in his voice.

“We both know you're obsessed with me and won't say no,” Malfoy grouches, utterly eclipsing Harry's good mood, “so can we skip over the part where you make a bumbling buffoon of yourself trying to make me beg – because Malfoys never beg, Potter – and arrange a contract. I can promise you exclusive use of the Malfoy châteaux in France for the foreseeable future should you agree.”

“And you're not allowed to call any of my friends names ever again,” Harry supplies quickly even though it sounds like something a schoolboy would ask for under the watchful eye of a mediating professor.

“I see you missed the hostage negotiation class at the Academy. One day you're going to get bamboozled out of a good deal and come crying to me. No, no, Potter, that's not how you stipulate a contract.” He wafts his hand limply in Harry's direction. “For a start, 'friends' is far too loose a term; you should always specify full names or recognised groups. And while you have lionheart morals, not all of us are so gallant.” Here, he lays his hand on his bare chest to demonstrate an example, hair falling over his forehead. “There is no reason for me to keep up an arrangement of that nature once our foray together is complete,” he finishes, flourishing his fingertips through his loose fringe. Harry refuses to admit that the way he rolls from the 'f' to the 'r' and around to the 'y', peppering his accent with light French tones, has him hot under the collar.

“How do I know your châteaux thing will carry over to next year, then, by that logic?” Harry asks, feeling very middle-class as he butchers any delicate pronunciations.

“Oh, good, you are listening.” And Malfoy does genuinely appear pleased by this, like Harry has finally answered something right for the first time and he's having to slightly alter his opinion of him. “However, possessions can be legally bound in a contract. You need collateral if the terms of agreement are concerning more-”

“How about we don't sign anything, and I do this out of the goodness of my heart, with only a polite favour in return?” Harry butts in, because he is supplying Malfoy with the perfect opportunity to sidetrack him and then he'll never get a straight answer.

“Your curiosity is killing you, isn't it?” Malfoy says, not unkindly, but with his lips curling on one side into a smirk. It sends a thrill down Harry's spine.

“My only term is that you're less of a bastard while I'm helping you,” he says, because whatever he says about it not needing to be official or formal, he knows Malfoy will need parameters.

“What if that's my true nature shining through?”

“You're a spoilt little shit, Malfoy. Sarcastic and scheming, but you're not a bastard. All I'm asking is that you pay me for my kindness with some of your own.”

“Why I do believe that's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me, Potter,” Malfoy swoons dramatically, but his eyes are wide, frightened even, like he can sense the moment of truth they have been building up to for two days is finally here.

“Do you agree?” He asks sternly.

“All right, deal. But this can't go further than the two of us, Dippy and Parkinson. Not even Granger and her pet may know of this.”

“Agreed.”

* * *

'It sparkles,' is the first thing Harry thinks, which is an absurd first thought to have when a man shows you his curse-tail. But it is, and Harry can't comprehend how he could have missed it. Now he is aware of its existence, he can see the glinting from the depths of the pond and the alien sheen of scales dotted across his stomach.

Now he is looking, he can see the raised ridges around the slashes on his throat, the way they expand when the water slops near.

Malfoy hefts the considerable weight of the thing from the water, splashing droplets on Harry's shoes and the bottom of his robes when the new tide slaps against the bank. The entire body of it is muscle, varying shades of glimmering silver, coiling around towards Malfoy's lap, flexible like a snake and, Harry thinks, just as strong.

Translucent fins like clear seaweed wind around his body, dangling wetly in the air where Malfoy has the tail aloft. And the fins at the end are made up of hundreds of tendrils of ghostly shreds, dripping rain on Malfoy's face as he stares up at it curving over him. If Harry's gaze were not fixated on the harsh flex of Malfoy's stomach holding the tail in place, he would have pondered the effectiveness of such fins for swimming.

Of course, he had known something was seriously wrong, but this scenario isn't what the mind immediately arrives at. To say he is stunned is accurate, but there is a numbness there too - a uselessness that leaves his mouth dry and his skin feeling too small for his body. The entire situation is so outlandish it leaves him feeling inadequate, like a fish flopping about on land with no sea in sight.

Malfoy is staring at him expectantly, like he should have comments appropriate for this moment stored in his repertoire. Harry doesn't. The water slops loudly in the silence for several minutes, while Malfoy's eyebrows climb steadily higher towards his hairline.

When Harry finally decides he has to say something, because the awkward is becoming too thick to pallet, he manages to exclaim through his throat, “Well, what the hell do you want me to do about it? You're half fucking fish!”

“It's a curse, not an inheritance,” Malfoy says, ever unflustered while, comparatively, Harry feels like he's running around in circles with his head under his arm. “Dippy says there are three days from when it starts to shine before it becomes permanent. We have that long to find the counter.” Malfoy explains all this reasonably, his voice steady, as he slides the great length of the tail back under the water with only a ripple.

“Three days exactly?”

“Sunset on the third. Romantic, eh? Makes me ill.” Harry does not doubt him from the disgusted snarl on his face. It's a slight crack in his calm façade and reassures Harry that he isn't the only one panicking.

“So what do you want me to do? Scour the Manor library?”

“You think that's not what I've had Dippy doing since the moment I cut myself on the first scale? It's a mortifying family curse. Why on earth would we document it purposefully? Imagine our shame if such physical evidence was found by an outsider!”

“So other descendants don't have exactly this problem!” Because that seems like a pretty obvious reason to Harry, but then he's a half-blood with a good amount of common sense drilled into him by Hermione, whereas Malfoy is a delusional pure-blood who thinks the world revolves around his every whim.

“It's not even an active curse anymore. This should never have happened in the first place.” Here, he slaps his palm on the water's surface, the loud smack sounding to Harry like another shard of Malfoy's mask falling. “The curse is purely Malfoy, and therefore watered down in the bloodline with every generation. No one's been afflicted in hundreds of years.”

“Do you mean to say, someone's done this to you deliberately?” Harry demands, because, while it's certainly not such a preposterous idea, Harry is annoyed that he hadn't come to that conclusion first.

“I'm an ex-Death Eater from the Dark Lord's inner circle and a very powerful family, Potter. Is it really so unbelievable?”

No, it's absolutely believable. “But it's wrong!”

“While your righteousness is applaudable, not everyone has such shining ethics. Besides, I'd rather cure myself before worrying about that, thank you very much. Priorities, Potter.”

“Right, so what do you want me to do?”

“The Ministry has old archives on all the pure-blood families. Suspicious activities and behaviours over the centuries have all been recorded. I'm hopeful we can find something in them. If any of them so much as hint my name, you're to check them out and bring them here.”

“And by 'check them out', you mean steal.” Harry crosses his arms warningly, but if Malfoy notices, then he doesn't care.

“Borrow,” he ventures delicately.

“Or I could just look over them there,” Harry reasons.

“Please, as if I'd trust you so completely with my fate. I remember the grades you used to achieve on research essays.”

“I'm not a miscreant or a ninja, Malfoy! How the hell am I meant to sneak a fuck ton of archive books and scrolls out of the Ministry?”

“No, you're anything but subtle,” Malfoy agrees, “but you are a half-decent wizard with an Auror badge and an agreement.”

“I'll be back in an hour.”

* * *

Harry does not make it back in an hour. Nor two. Or even three. In fact, he has been rooting around in the Ministry's dusty archive room for gone three and a half hours when he finally decides to call it a night. The permanent Tempus charm hovering in bold red off to one side of the peeved secretary cum night-guard tells him gravely that it is past half eight, and Harry has only learned four things from his visit here, none of which are particularly relevant.

Firstly, that Mrs Nott was poisoned shortly after Theo's birth, unfortunately it wasn't fatal, and that the conjecture surrounding Mr Nott's possible involvement due to scandalous rumours of adultery kept the Ministry gossip-mill in quite a tizz until the war broke out.

Secondly, that there is a reason no one in school knew Crabbe's middle names. Actually, Harry would be surprised if Crabbe himself could remember and pronounce the string of Northern-accented consonants.

Thirdly, that there isn't a person in the Wizarding world, alive or dead ,who hasn't been threatened by, schemed against or, with the correct breeding and circumstances, married to a Malfoy. So, Harry isn't having too much trouble seeing why someone might have felt it was necessary to punish Malfoy, but that doesn't mean his conscience will allow him to abandon someone in need.

And, lastly, that he is going to be in so much trouble when he gets home, he might as well avoid it altogether and stay out all night.

It is absolutely dark in the sun room when he walks in and immediately heads for the glass door. Dippy is absent again, but rather than worrying about the elf, Harry thinks it is more reasonable for him to be worrying about himself – he can't imagine Malfoy taking his non-news very gracefully.

He expects the soft glow of Malfoy's wand when he pushes through the magical glass, and perhaps a firefly twinkling here and there on the still water. But the Manor grounds are _alive_ when he steps softly down onto the lush grass. There are fireflies, or at least a magical approximation of them, hundreds of them hovering over the lake. Their light mingles with the bright stars above in the clear sky on the shiny surface of the lake. Reflections everywhere, mournful and hollow. 

And the willow's vines are luminescent with their own magic, glowing leaves bursting from the shadowy branches and dipping into the water like jellyfish tentacles.

They light up the scales of Malfoy's tail under the water. Harry has been trying not to think about the oddness of it while he has been away. It shouldn't be _that_ strange. He saw more ridiculous things in his first years of Hogwarts – or so it seemed at the time. But Malfoy is...Malfoy, not this alluring creature wallowing in the shallows, all pale skin and fair hair and shining scales in the starlight.

Malfoy is staring down at himself, eyes silver and distant, when he approaches as silently as he can. Malfoy hears him anyway. “Maybe it wouldn't be so bad?” he murmurs, one finger skimming over the sparse patch of ashy scales below his bellybutton.

“What? Being cursed to spend the rest of your life stuck in this pond?” Harry says, trying to put as much bite into it as he can. Malfoy sounds as though he's given up and is beginning to accept a fate Harry does not intend to let happen. If he has to rile Malfoy up to get him back on task, then it will be his damn pleasure to do so.

Malfoy hums back at him, considering the swell of relaxed muscle where his thighs should have been, twiddling at the braid of translucent fins that flutter there. “It's not as slimy as I first thought it would be,” he continues, fingertips trailing experimentally down his side.

“You wouldn't see your friends anymore,” Harry baits, not sure how to get a rise out of Malfoy when he doesn't know what he most values.

“And it's heavy but not cumbersome,” Malfoy carries on like Harry isn't talking at all.

“And you'd never be able to visit your father.”

“I wonder how fast it is,” and the way he says it makes him sound like he's talking about a new aquatic racing broom rather than a part of his own anatomy. Harry has never felt pity for Malfoy, and he isn't going to start now, but the defeatist attitude sparks a sadness in him under the boiling annoyance and anger. The little boy, hiding in a dark cupboard a lifetime ago, pangs sympathy as him.

“You wouldn't be able to brew again,” Harry needles when inspiration strikes moments later. That gets Malfoy's attention, his hands snapping a foot from his tail, as if burned. He doesn't lift his gaze more than to stare out across the silent pond, eyes still distant, but his forehead wrinkles lightly like he is waking from an incomprehensible dream.

“Well, that won't do.” His voice sounds fuzzy and unsure but Harry thinks the fight is returning to him.

“No, it won't,” Harry agrees. “So what are you going to do about it? I can report that there is nothing to be found in the Ministry archives. Have you just been wallowing in self-pity while I was gone, or have you done something productive?”

“The archives?” Harry can see the moment Malfoy's attention catapults back to the present. He doesn't move other than his mouth thinning and his forehead smoothing out, but Harry can tell. “Ah, yes, the archives. Did I or did I not tell you to bring anything concerning my family back to me?” And there is the scathing drawl Harry has been searching for – although now he has it, he isn't sure why.

“There was no mention of any family curse or suspicious activity. Trust me.”

“Potter. Really now. It could have been coded. Old pure-bloods were often involved in their family archive sections at the Ministry. Besides, you could have been looking-”

“I was in the right place, Malfoy. I summoned any document even mentioning your name.” What Malfoy doesn't need to know is that he almost drowned himself in the replying bombardment of paper, or that the witch waiting outside had tittered non-stop for the remainder of his time there.

“But a code-”

“Malfoy. There was nothing there,” he states, hoping Malfoy will appreciate his blunt honesty and not spiral into a fitful depression. “What do we do now?” he prompts, just in case.

“I searched through all the family heads' pensieves while you were gone. I'll begin cataloguing additional memories around the times Dippy knows the curse surfaced next.”

“Pensieves? Where in Merlin's name did you find those?”

“What sort of Wizarding household doesn't have a Pensieve athenaeum?” Malfoy asks, genuine surprise colouring his features. Harry will never stop being stunned by the complexities and oddities of pure-bloods.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, because he doesn't really want to know what other idiotic, useless rooms the Manor has hidden inside its depths.

“Dippy has scoured the entire family library, but I suppose you could look further afield for how the curse may have started.”

“You think we'd be able to figure out the counter from that?”

“Not really,” Malfoy sighs, patience thinning like he is explaining to a toddler why white lies are necessary. “But you're no help to me dithering about and wearing out my lawn with your pacing. And if I told you to go home, I doubt you'd listen?” His eyes slide to Harry's questioningly at that and then back away at Harry's resolute nod.

“If I could ask Hermione-”

“Absolutely not, Potter,” Malfoy bursts, water slapping at the bank with his startled movement and rippling out into the deeper water.

“I'll see if I can borrow some reading material from a curse-breaker, then,” Harry says, deciding straight away he shouldn't tell Malfoy who said curse-breaker is.

“Well, hop to it. We have less than twenty-four hours left to crack this riddle!” Malfoy sounds positively chipper and, entirely sure his goal to motivate Malfoy has been met, Harry strolls back to what he's begun to think of as 'his' Floo. He nearly loses his footing dodging violently away from a gleaming albino peacock's snapping beak, then nearly loses it again, because those things are _real_? Who would have thought.

* * *

The question occurs to Harry while he and Bill are stubbornly staring each other off. Harry has explained the sort of information he desperately needs to borrow, that it is urgent and it isn't his secret to tell. Bill, who is well-practised in waiting out his younger brothers during inquiries, is unimpressed.

For a moment, Harry falters, wondering if his judgement was wrong. He hopes Bill doesn't notice him biting his lip nervously. If he does, he doesn't say anything. He sweeps an arm in welcome, finally allowing Harry out of the dark and into his home.

Fleur and the children are, thankfully, in France visiting her mother. They still negotiate around the required small talk while Bill rifles through the substantial book collection in his study, but considering the query that has occurred to Harry – and Malfoy's pompous, 'Priorities, Potter,' which is still echoing between his ears – he is glad the house is empty. Fleur would force him masterfully into staying for tea, then Victoire would no doubt badger him into a bedtime story. Any other time he would be pleased to comply, but no one understands better the importance of time limits.

He leaves Bill’s house with four volumes in his pocket that would put half of the Hogwarts library collection to shame. Even minimised as they are, their corners peep out of the top of his pocket.

Malfoy is head first in a pensieve when Harry returns, eyes scanning for that blasted bird. He is facing the bank now, whip-lean arms tense as they hold his torso aloft. The soft orange glow of magic makes his back look tan and the scales over the swell of his arse gold, while the bluish-white of the pensieve is ghostly on his front, sparking on the glittering scales low on his front. His hair is damp at the base of his neck, starting to curl – which should not be endearing.

There is no way for him to interrupt, no need to. Instead, he settles crosslegged on the grass, his deep brown Auror's robes close to his body to ward off the cold of night that has rolled in, in his absence. He hefts the first tome onto his lap, enlarges it, thinks better of it and drops it onto the grass before him. At the first page, he sighs, casts a magnifying charm on his glasses and prepares himself for a long night and quadruple-vision in the morning.

He tries not to be too distracted by Malfoy's resolutely frozen form, but it is like standing beside a calm ocean after a storm and thinking nothing of it: impossible. His arms are tense, but they never even quiver, like a marble statue - art that keeps ensnaring Harry's eye. There is certainly an alien beauty to this creature Malfoy has become, but then Malfoy will open his mouth and he is still so intrinsically Malfoy, it confuses Harry's senses.

By the time Malfoy finally surfaces, fingers immediately rising to rub tiredly – dejectedly – between his eyes, Harry is halfway through the second chapter of his volume with nothing to show for it except a stiff back. He feels it creak as he sits up. He doesn't need to ask if Malfoy found anything, and, from the way Malfoy slides resignedly into the pond until only his head is visible, Malfoy has sensed the same.

Instead, Harry ventures, “There was something you didn't mention earlier.”

“Oh, what was that?”

“You said three days.”

“Yes, well done, Potter. Gold star for powers of observation.”

“Well.” Harry pauses, because there is no delicate way to ask this, and he is afraid of the answer. “What day are we on now?”

Malfoy's head drops back against the grassy bank, his cheek rubbing reassuringly against one of the willow's smooth roots. He doesn't sigh, but he doesn't try to pretend or argue. His mask is shattering.

“Tomorrow.” He glances around at Harry, catches sight of the Tempus charm shining through the sleeve of Harry's robes and laughs humourlessly. “No, today, is the third day.”

The next hours are heavy and dark and silent. Though there is no mad man hunting him for his blood, it reminds Harry of the long, guarded nights Harry spent while searching for the Horcruxes. Always on edge and tense, always afraid. It isn't his life this curse will ruin, yet he is fearful. What if he misses something while skimming one of the books? It would be his fault Malfoy's life was destroyed.

Harry's voice is too thick to use. Malfoy may feel the same, because he doesn't ask for one of Harry's books, just flicks his hand at him. Harry finds himself flinching minutely every time one of their pages rustles, every time the peacock darts along his peripheral vision. His vision is doughy, like he's reading through swamp water, and when he next looks up Malfoy is dozing on the bank and the sky is lightening.

His bones are stiff when he levers himself up and wanders back to the Manor. He leaves a message with Dippy before stumbling through the Floo, only half awake and unaware of what is waiting for him on the other side.

Harry is so focused on finding the Pepper-Up Potion he _knows_ he left in his bureau, he misses the other presence in the room. As soon as his fingertips find the glass bottle, elbow deep in a draw, though, he feels the hostile eyes on his skin like electricity.

“Haven’t been kidnapped by an erant Death Eater then,” Theo says pleasantly from his back. Harry’s instincts have him pressing his exposed spine against the closest wall, he tries to make it look casual, but he probably looks as petrified as he feels. There has always been a possessive streak in Theo’s veins, and Harry is beginning to ponder how far it has grown without him noticing over the last few weeks.

“Sorry, I forgot to owl,” he soothes, palms open passively.

“Oh, you forgot to tell the man you love that you’d be out all night doing Merlin knows what with Merlin knows who?” Theo nods, like that’s perfectly understandable, but his eyes are slitted, the brown of his irises barely visible. A fleck of dawn light glints off his sandy hair, catches the profile of his face. It casts the opposite side in absolute shadow.

“I’m sorry, Theo,” Harry attempts to appease, again. “You know how I get, it just slipped my mind.”

“When you’re on a case.”

“What?”

“That’s how you get when you’re on a case. You said your current case was over. So, what have you been doing instead?”

“Just helping a friend with something. It’s urgent, Theo. You know I wouldn’t have unless it was urgent. I’m sorry.”

“What is this all-important favour then?” He doesn’t say it, but the implied ‘more important than me’ is louder than anything he voices.

“Just helping a friend,” Harry repeats tentatively.

“You can trust me, Harry. I just want to make sure you’re safe,” Theo weedles, like Harry is naive and doesn’t know the tactic.

“I’m fine, Theo. You can stop worrying. But this really is urgent. I just popped home for a Pepper-Up and a change of clothes.”

“If you’re sure,” Theo finally sighs. And Harry’s thinks he’s got away with it, that he’s home free. Maybe he is a naive idiot. “But if it’s so important, maybe I can help?” Theo is innocently open as he offers, wide-eyed and gliding towards Harry. 

Harry’s gut rebels immediately at the idea, shudders and screams at him not to say anything. But that’s preposterous. Theo is his partner, he’s not the most trustworthy person in the world but he protects his own, and Harry is one of his own. This isn’t Harry’s secret, though. Malfoy doesn’t want him to let anyone else know, is ashamed and offended by his own pure-blood sensibilities.

“Thanks for the offer, Theo. I really appreciate it but…”

“Harry,” Theo purrs, sliding up to him, breath wafting over his ear. “Let me be useful to you, let me help.” It sets Harry’s nerves on edge. There is something wrong here. Theo is wrong. The itch is back on his back, maddening. 

“I’m sorry, but it’s not my secret to share.” He tries to smile reassuringly, probably fails, and has to drop his eyes from Theo’s unwavering glare, like a bird of prey zeroing in on a target hundreds of metres below. His skin is hot under his collar. There is nowhere to run unless Theo allows him to escape.

All of Harry’s muscles tense in a familiar sequence. It’s the same one as when he is waiting for a raid to begin, waiting for the order to go.

“If you’re sure,” Theo finally murmurs, pecking Harry’s cold lips with his own. They are hard and unforgiving against Harry. “But won’t you stay a while? It’s my day off. We could go out to breakfast?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry softens his voice again, the placating cycle starting all over again. He glances out of the window at the bright pink sky. It must be seven by now, at least, if not later. “We’re on a sharp timeframe. But I promise, one way or another, this will all be over by tonight. I’ll bring you home something nice for dinner?”

“Not even a quick bite?” Theo wrangles, taking one last step forward so their bodies are flush together. It’s like stepping into a shark’s mouth.

“I’m really not sure I have time.” Harry slips one hand into Theo’s hair for good measure, strokes the tufts that have become displaced.

“Ouch!” Theo suddenly jumps back, glaring down at Harry’s pocket. “What the hell is that?” The corners of the two books poke out guiltily.

“Sorry, research material.” 

They are out of his pocket and in Theo’s hands before Harry can protest. Theo is smiling playfully, but Harry thinks the flash of teeth looks more viciously victorious than necessary.

“ _‘Afflictions of the Affiliates and Affluent’_ and _‘Waterweed and the Whack-A-Wart: Common Man’s Edition.’_ Harry what are these?”

“Research, like I said.”

“But these are high end curse-breaking books. Specialist. Where did you get them?”

“A friend,” Harry says defensively, making a grab for the nearest volume and slipping it back into his empty pocket.

“Oh,” Theo replies, quietly, but it isn’t in reply to Harry’s statement. He is peering at the author’s name on _‘Afflictions of the Affiliates and Affluent’_ with wide eyes. “Harmony Discophany?”

“You’ve heard of her?”

“Have you?” Theo returns, not taking his eyes off Harry’s face for a second, studying Harry’s expression minutely.

“Not really, no. Beyond knowing she wrote that.” When Theo doesn’t reply, just returns his harsh gaze to the front cover, Harry prompts, “Do you?”

“I’ve heard stories.” Theo bites his lips, which Harry has never seen him do before, and says, “Would you mind terribly if I borrowed this today? I’d rather like to read it.”

“I need it today. You can have it tomorrow,” Harry reassures, feeling himself relax as the tension between them shifts.

“I need it today, Harry,” Theo bites, and Harry smacks himself for thinking that was the end of it. His nerves are fraying with the constant vigilance. This is more stressful than questioning a suspect.

“Why can’t it wait one more?”

“Because I’m busy with my Redemption hours tomorrow.”

“Well, I’m sure Bill won’t mind if you borrow it for a couple of weeks. But I really need that book today, Theo.” Harry’s firm turn of phrase makes Theo frown. Harry can see the rebellion clouding Theo’s eyes like a storm brewing.

“You can’t order me around like that, Harry.”

“I’m not ordering you to do anything! I just...My friend is really on a tight schedule and we need that book today! You can have it tomorrow.”

“Is this a relapse? And we were making so much progress controlling your temper,” Theo says, disappointed. It stings - wakes Harry up. Theo is manipulating him.

“Give me the book, Theodore,” he growls, fists clenched. There is a tense pause, where all of Harry’s limbs feel too heavy to shift and he thinks his teeth might grind to dust. But then Theo nods.

“No need for that. It’s just a book.” The item in question slides back into Harry’s robes, thunking dully against the other tome. 

“I’ll be back later tonight.”

“Where are you going anyway? What friend are you helping?” Theo persists, and Harry feels dizzy from their circling each other for so long. He never thought he’d admit to liking Malfoy’s company more than anyone’s, but right now he can’t wait to get back to him.

“It doesn’t matter, Theo,” he dismisses, tired of arguing.

He pointedly waits for Theo to sidle into the kitchen before picking up their cracked pot of Floo powder and stepping back through to Malfoy Manor. He takes care to whisper the name lowly but especially clearly.

* * *

There is perhaps an hour left before sunset, when Malfoy’s inner spoilt brat finally wins.

The light drizzle that has plagued them all afternoon has eased, and the skies are clearing as they darken. There is but a breathy hint of breeze, too slight to even rumple the delicate surface of the water, but enough for Harry to feel it tickling at his ears. The peacock, which has been circling menacingly closer to Harry as the hours have crawled by, is gone as well, and the stillness is threatening and heavy around them.

“What’s the _point,_ Potter!” Malfoy’s shout is sudden and echoes loudly around them, dulled only by the fog rolling away on the other, distant side of the lake. The slap of Malfoy’s book flipping shut is sharp with finality.

“We’re breaking a generations old curse, did you think it was going to be easy?” Harry exclaims, dumbfounded, because he’s been through harsher scrapes than this and come out in one piece on the other side. There’s no reason Malfoy shouldn’t be able to do the same.

“Yes, I thought it was going to be a walk in the park! That’s why I practically _begged_ an outsider for help!” The bite of Malfoy’s sarcasm riles Harry’s anger, and Malfoy must notice his hackles rising because he is immediately calm again. He switches to mollifying diplomat as quickly as a shark to predator. “We’re out of time. I need to face the facts. My fate is sealed and I need to accept it,” he says rationally.

“We’ve still got an hour, at least!” Harry argues, because it isn’t _in_ him to give up.

“Don’t be _obtuse_ , Potter. It may suit you, but I’d rather accept this with a little dignity, rather than scrabble around in the dirt like a common baboon until the last possible second.”

“ _You’re giving up?_ ” Harry’s voice scratches in protest at the shrillness of his exclamation. But Harry is aghast at the thought of leaving this - whatever _this_ is - abandoned, out at sea, unfinished. “But we’re so close! I can feel it!” Actually, his gut is panging in a disgustingly negative way, but believing in the power of positive thinking isn’t going to hurt. 

“We’ve pursued every possible avenue of enquiry I can think of,” Malfoy reasons, trailing his long fingers through the water, considering.

Harry smacks his palm on the last remaining volume he borrowed from Bill at his side. “I’ve still got this one to go through,” Harry all but roars, like it is he who has the weight of Lady Destiny pounding relentlessly down on his shoulders, but Malfoy is being so placid about the whole _surrendering_ deal, Harry has taken it upon himself to be outraged in his stead.

“Not that your enthusiasm is going unappreciated, but, statistically speaking, the odds are against you.” Malfoy’s exploring fingertips have wandered up to his gills, plucking at them with varying degrees of sharpness until he winces, nods and drops his hand back to his scaled lap.

“But Murphy’s _with_ me!” Harry doesn’t even consider whether the saying is purely muggle and whether Malfoy will understand the reference, it’s a valid point, damn him!

“I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me, Potter, but desperation has such an ugly stench. I’d rather like to skip over it.” 

Harry lunges forward, somewhat disrupted by the heavy book making his movements cumbersome fingers reaching and body stretching. The tightness where he has been sitting all day squeezes at his muscles but he is in such a hurry he can force himself through the pinching pains.

“ _Malfoy!_ ”

But the cursed Merman is gone without even a breath of ripple left in his wake.

* * *

Harry doggedly soldiers on after the ringing of Malfoy’s name subsides. He finally wrenches the cover of Discophany’s endlessly paged novel open. He is running on the last dregs of his adrenalin by now, his eyes sagging under their own weight against his will, but the more exhausted he becomes the more frantically he turns the pages and the quicker he skims the words.

The sun isn’t quite touching the horizon yet, but the bright bursts of thin flame blooming, and the dark shadows casting in the east are setting Harry’s heart fluttering nervously. The dwindling time is all that’s keeping him awake.

He is thinking about drilling out his own eyes over an entire bloody chapter about the longstanding problem of Calcifying Bunions in the Whithnail family, when the volume is ripped from his grasp. The wind whistles warningly, the willow creeks protectively and a darkness falls across Harry’s back.

“You couldn’t have just left it alone,” a man sighs, breathless. Harry knows before he turns who it is, before he even spoke. He doesn’t know why, he just knows the recent cold behaviour snaps into focus and somehow _he_ is the villain of this pantomime.

“Why are you here, Theo?” Is what he asks. There is no reason to ask how Theo knows where _here_ is, because there is only one explanation. Harry is more surprised by the disappointing fact that he is not surprised at all, than he is by the situation itself.

“Because someone needs to take care of you if you’re not going to do it yourself,” Theo says, crouching down behind him and laying an assertive hand on the exposed skin at the back of Harry’s neck.

“I’m fine, Theo. I’d like my book back now, please.” Once upon a time, remaining calm and keeping his anger in check would have been impossible for Harry, but now he falls into the patterns and training of a full-fledged Auror like a second skin. ‘Calm, in control and understanding,’ he hears Kingsley repeating at the back of his mind from when he’d been enlisted in a domestic and public relations seminar.

“I can’t do that, Harry.”

“Theo. My book. Now!” He attempts a more dominant approach and immediately regrets it. Theo’s nails sting on his neck, one threateningly circling round onto his jugular. He thinks, horrified, for a moment, he has pushed Theo too far, but then...

“I’m sorry. Malfoy’s been manipulating you for too long.”

“Manipulating me? What are you on about?” Harry asks, reverting back to Kingsley’s way of doing things. ‘Understanding, Harry. Make yourself trustworthy, turn yourself into an ally and they’ll tell you anything you want to know.’ Never mind that this is _Theo,_ his (absolutely ex) boyfriend. That is the instant it occurs to Harry this is how he has been handling Theo almost since they became a them. A business transaction. He doesn’t feel guilty about it, they both knew it was an arrangement of convenience not a destined love affair of the heart, but he should have sensed something was wrong because of it.

“You can’t see it, but he might have cast a spell on you. I knew when you called him ‘friend’ this morning. My Harry would never call Malfoy ‘friend,’” Theo spits, glancing over his shoulder like Malfoy might be there rather than wallowing in the depths of the lake.

“I’m not under a spell, Theo. Stop being silly. I’m just...No one deserves his fate, and if I can help him, I will.” Harry knows as soon as he has said it, it is the wrong thing to say when applied to his current tactic. Thankfully, Theo perceives it as a protestation of a poor, naive Harry who thinks the best of people, than the truth.

“Every tree has a bad apple,” he explains, “he deserves whatever’s coming to him for corrupting you.”

“Theo, Malfoy’s not all bad. I don’t think he ever was, not really. Fear does strange things to all-” 

“But you’re _mine!_ ” Theo thunders, forcing Harry’s head round. His face is blotched and red with rage, and a vein throbs in his forehead. “You’re mine, Harry, and he’s going to steal you away from me! We could leave now, forget any of this ever happened and be happy. There’s only half an hour left anyway, isn’t it about time you gave up?”

It’s like a poltergeist has taken a stroll through one ear and out the other side, jerking his spine with the strength of the resulting shiver. His mind comes alive with revelation. 

Theo cursed Malfoy.

Therefore, Theo has knowledge of the curse.

Possibly, more knowledge than either Malfoy or Harry.

“Calm down, Theo,” he murmurs softly, wilfully channelling Kingsley’s lessons. He gently wipes a stray fleck of spittle from below Theo’s lip. He’s aiming for lovingly, but he isn’t quite sure he succeeds. “Just because I’m helping him, and I don’t hate him like I used to, it doesn’t mean I’m going to elope with the prick.”

“But you will. Eventually.” Theo’s eyes are wide and earnest, the blood vessels in them bloody red against the white. “It might not be today, or tomorrow, but one day, you’ll drop me in the mud for that unworthy snake!”

“No one knows the future. I can’t promise we’ll be together forever, Theo,” - or in five minutes time, he adds silently to himself - “but I think you’re taking this whole thing a little out of proportion.” He considers, a flash of memory pulsing before his eyes. ‘And your service can't be a picnic right now after the accident,’ Harry had said, just days before. And, of course, he had known what the accident entailed, but… “What do you know, Theo?”

“He was going to steal you from me!”

“Theodore. That prophecy you smashed. What did you see?”

“You were with him. He’d corrupted you. Trained you like a house-elf, eating out of the palm of his hand. You smiled and smiled and smiled but I could tell. I know you. You weren’t really happy. You’re not domestic, Harry, and you never will be. He’d broken you! _Wicked thief!_ ”

“So, how did you do it?” Harry asks, rerouteing the conversation back into - hopefully- safer waters. 

“You want me to confess?” Theo hisses. Momentarily, Harry thinks Theo has seen straight through his strategy like a real Slytherin, but a glance at his face tells Harry it is the opposite; Theo doesn’t think Harry is interrogating him as an Auror, he thinks Harry is fighting against Malfoy’s so-called spell, that he may betray him for Malfoy’s arms at any second. He needs to make Theo believe Harry is invested in their relationship, that everything he does and says from now on is for the survival of their bond.

“I want you to trust me. Trust is the most important thing for a successful partnership,” he says fervently, catching sight of the red sky lighting up Theo’s hair from behind. It’s almost time. A strand of desperation slips into his bloodstream, setting his heart racing, the hairs - above where Theo is still pressing - at his neck standing rigid. It is through sheer effort alone that he keeps his breathing steady, rather than panting and panicking into Theo’s face. Panic won’t get him anywhere.

“It was nothing. I’d do anything for you, you know that.” His fingers lighten, more stroking at Harry’s skin than holding now. “Just a charm on a very specific tea. I slipped it into one of Pansy’s gift baskets, silly bint is always thanking him with one beverage or another.”

“I understand, you did it for me,” Harry huffs, air catching in his throat. He determinedly slows his words. “After you saw that prophecy, you knew it would ruin me and you couldn’t let it come true. You’ve saved me, haven’t you, Theo.” He is nodding, gratefully. He makes sure his head is below Theo’s before staring up and into Theo’s eyes, dotingly, like Theo is the centre of his universe.

“I’m glad you understand. Can we go home now? I’m feeling really rather tired, I’d like to go to bed. I’ve already ironed your favourite newspaper and pressed your robes for tomorrow.” Harry tries not to shy away once Theo has pulled him to his feet, Bill’s books forgotten at his feet on the sloping grass.

“There’s one more thing I’d be interested in knowing,” he hazards, tentatively, thinking of how he could plausibly continue his interrogation without raising Theo’s suspicions. The red sun flashes warningly at him in the background. For all Harry knows he may already be too late, but if there’s still a remote chance... “So I can appreciate how much you’ve truly done for me.”

“Oh?”

“You said ‘half an hour?’” He says it as a question, so it sounds less threatening and demanding. It’s unlikely Theo would have begun the curse without knowing more than how to cause it, but this statement is proof that he does. 

“What about it? You must have mentioned it this morning.”

“No, Theodore, I never mentioned specifics,” Harry states, struggling not to let it sound like his teeth are gritted tight enough to sever bone from bone.

“Well, I’ve been checking up on him. One of the elves must have told me.”

“I don’t think so, Theo. What aren’t you telling me? Where did you find out about this curse?” Harry is sure he has overstepped this time and winces away minutely. By some miracle, it is exactly this action that causes Theo to soften.

“It’s not important, Harry. His time’s almost up and you won’t have to worry about him ever again.” Theo pats his arm, patronisingly, because Harry is under such a strong spell even he can’t wiggle his way free. Or so Theo believes.

“But you know how I hate puzzles. I’ll drive myself bonkers trying to figure out how the curse could have been broken,” Harry reasons, then quickly adds, “even if you’ve saved me and I’m free.”

“But you wouldn’t be satisfied if I just told you either, I know what you’re like.” Theo’s wand flicks out of nowhere, startling Harry and summoning Bill’s last book.

“Then can I continue reading? The answer’s in that book, isn’t it? I’m not under his spell anymore, so what harm could it do?”

“Can’t you wait until we’re at home?”

“But then I won’t have beaten the timer. I’ll lose!” Harry begs, eyes bright with the reflection of the setting sun. Theo eyes him warily, and at the bottom of his peripheral vision Harry sees his wand perform an intricate little dance Harry knows to be a wordless _‘finite’_.

“I suppose if you must,” he finally allows, hefting the book into Harry’s arms and resizing it for him. The weight almost knocks Harry’s knees out from under him.

“We’ve been talking for a while, can you give me a hint to make up for the time I've lost?” Harry dares to ask, glaring down at the monumentally long list of chapters that stretches over seven pages, triple columned and in minuscule writing.

“You are a cheeky one, Harry,” Theo sighs, but it’s fond. “There should be a chapter on water curses in there somewhere. If you know your latin, you should be able to find it.”

The tension cementing Harry’s spine straight loosens at the thought of being _so close_ , but at the same time his hands begin to shake, because he can see stars in the twilight above him and the west is more shadowed blues and purples than brilliant reds.

His nervous fingers fumble over the pages until a crude sketch of a water nymph signals his arrival in the correct place. The awkwardness of holding the book steady under Theo’s unyielding gaze is too much for his desperation to take. His knees hit the ground with enough force to crack rock, the book following soon after, and he continues to lash at the pages from there as the first magical fireflies sway to life around him.

“' _maledicto parum sirenis?'”_ He shouts suddenly, victorious. “That’s the Malfoy curse?”

“A variation of it,” which isn’t the statement he wanted to here. Variations are complications.

“Is this where you learned about it?” Harry appeals, cheeks flushes and nails crinkling the old paper.

“No, but I knew Discophony invented it. Cursed the original Malfoy, in fact. Scorned lover and all that jazz.” Theo shrugs, somehow oblivious to Harry’s condition. “So, I was pretty sure it’d be in there when I saw the book this morning.”

“It says Altairius’ curse can only be broken with marriage and a wedding night showered with true love.”

“Yes, that is rather poetic, isn’t it.” Theo’s lips curl in disgust.

“But he was half fish. How could he have a wedding night?”

“Well, that was the point, wasn’t it. She didn’t want it to be broken.” A malicious smirk morphs on Theo’s features. It is one of the ugliest expressions Harry has ever seen on him. Then he feels like his heart has sunk into his stomach as he realises.

“So, after all this time, there was never a way to break Malfoy’s curse?” Because it can’t be. There _has_ to be a way. The world isn’t that cruel. There is _always_ a way.

“Are you sure you’re not still under his spell?” Theo says, but it’s humorous and has no real snap to it. He flicks his hand disinterestedly, like he is bored of playing with Harry’s whims.

“I’m fine, Theo. I just don’t like thinking of all that time I’ve wasted,” Harry whispers anyway.

“Oh, well, I shouldn’t worry. For one thing, that was only Altairius’ cure. For another, the curse would be diluted almost to nothing these days. Do you know how much Vampire Squid’s ink I had to put in there to activate it?”

_‘What?’_

“How terrible for you,” Harry gasps, strangled and breathless, eyes unbelieving and wide, as the last slice of golden dome edges towards the blackness of the earth.

“You’re really interested in this?”

“I’m an Auror, Theo,” Harry pants, lungs squeezing in his chest, desperately. “I like to solve puzzles completely. So, what do you think this Malfoy’s cure would be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“It matters to me! I’ll never be able to sleep again if I don’t know!”

“No need to get your knickers in a twist. It’s probably just a kiss of true love,” he pauses, fingers reaching to play with the sweat damp strands of Harry’s hair. “No, not even that anymore I shouldn’t think.” He chews his lip, peeks slyly out at Harry from under his eyelashes alluringly, but Harry is too busy trying not to suffocate or have a pulmonary to think much of the gesture. “Maybe a kiss of _potential_ true love would do it.” He shrugs nonchalantly, like he isn’t the reason Harry’s day has simultaneously felt like the apocalypse and the return of Merlin in one. “Can we go now?”

“A kiss of potential true love?” Harry breathes, every rasping breath burning from lips to lungs. He grasps Theo’s fingers, where they are stroking at his head, and stills them with a shaking hand. 

‘You were with him,’ Theo had said, not half an hour ago. ‘You smiled and smiled and smiled...’ ‘...like you were in love,' Harry finishes.

“Cruelly ironic, isn’t it really? Who could ever love a pitiful creature like that?” ‘I could!’ A creature inside Harry’s chest screeches, clawing with fiery talons to be released. There is still a slither of radiant brilliance shining along the horizon when Harry turns his back on it and urgently lurches for the willow tree. “Wait! What are you doing? You can’t go in there!” Theo is howling behind him.

Hooked fingers grab violently at his ankles, yanking him back. There is a disorientating jolt as the side of his head hits the grass, and then Theo is on top of him, wrestling him into submission on the ground. But Harry is stronger, grappling with Theo’s wiry arms, while Harry’s feet jerk all the stability of Theo’s legs from under him.

They roll and scratch at each other. The back of Harry’s robes are sopping with sweat, the smell of his hard work tangy in the air, and the hem is catching in the lapping pond water where they are tangled. 

It is with the frantic desolation of one who is out of time, that Harry manages to cuff Theo around the side of the head, dislodging him and weakening his efforts. The last line of shimmering light on the horizon is feeble as Harry, grip on Theo’s wand so tight the wood groans, intones strongly, _“ligaveris.”_

The chains are a glinting silver that reflect the starlight and the fireflies and the last dull drops of sunlight.

“You _can’t!_ You’re mine, Harry! _Mine!_ ” Theo’s wretched wails rise shrilly into the fresh night as Harry wades into the shallows of the pond and dives beneath the undulating surface.

His Auror robes are hefty and billowing at his back, clutching at his throat and arms like Grindylows’ clutching fingers. He rips at the buttons on his front and shimmies from the sodden fabric angrily, then throws as much weight as he has into continuing his dive.

The pond is enormous and murky when seen from the surface, but down here everything is clear with a luminescent, green sheen everywhere. His eyes still sting when he pries them open though. 

A flurry of crimson fish hurry from his path, their beady eyes panicky. When he had entered the water, Harry hadn’t even thought of how he would find Malfoy in such a large expanse of water. The pond might as well have been an ocean, but Circe has blessed him. Malfoy’s tail glitters back at him from the dark grey sand below.

It’s a long way down, Harry isn’t sure his protesting lungs will hold out that long, but he’s never been even passable at bubble-head charms and he’s a little short on thinking time.

When Malfoy notices Harry, his lips coil back, showing off teeth sharper than they had been an hour ago. They gnash at Harry, irritatedly, as Harry drags himself closer.

Harry has no idea if Malfoy can speak underwater - has no time to find out.

Bubbles explode in the resulting tussle when Harry seizes one of Malfoy’s arms. Sharp claws that weren’t there before scrape at Harry’s face, his arms, shredding his shirt, but Harry knows what he has to do. He ignores the fresh wafts of red rising from his skin and lashes his free hand at Malfoy’s hair, tugging his face straight. His legs kick, disorientated by his oxygen-starved blood, him forward the last foot.

Their lips meet as the pond flashes cardinal red, the final huzzah of the dying sun.

Malfoy is motionless against him, but the smooth panting of his gills pushes humid air into Harry’s pounding lungs. His eyes are bright in the light of his own tail, confused, and his lips soft like rose petals.

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/creaturefestmod/39308838/26804/26804_original.jpg)

Harry isn’t sure what he is expecting, but when he pulls away and nothing happens, he feels the sadness of it clogging in his throat. There is a deadness behind Malfoy’s eyes, too, that spells defeat.

Harry’s feet make aborted kicks towards the surface, his filled lungs buoying him the rest of the way. The air is cold when he breaks free and gasps for breath, freezing the water droplets caught in his hair immediately.

His breath ghosts around him as company as he struggles and then wades back to shore. The willow tree is comforting, its vines like a mother’s embrace cradling him in his misery. And he will never know if it was because he was too late or because it was the wrong cure or because Harry simply does not have it in him to happily coexist with a Malfoy.

His shirt is cold and clammy, clinging to his torso like a translucent second skin. His hair, littered with icicles, is plastered atop his head. His robes are buttonless and drenched. His shirt is absolutely ruined. And for what? For nothing.

It occurs to him, that he should be busying himself with arresting Theo and going through the motions, but when he turns his head to look, Theo is long gone. He can’t bring himself to care overly. A complication for later, right now Harry needs to wallow in his failure before he can move on. The weariness is deep in his bones, though, and unlikely to leave him soon. He closes his eyes against defeat.

A brightness, so pure it dazzles him through the thin skin of his eyelids, startles Harry back to reality. The lake is alive with molten silver, the water churning and bubbling. And there is a heat emanating from the depths. The willow above him bends slightly in welcome.

A glittering piece of _something_ bobs across to him, vying for his attention on the crystalline water. He plucks it up, not taking his gaze from the frothy phenomenon. It is hard and sharp and smooth, but dying, its edges wilting and curling in on themselves. Within seconds, it has peeled apart in his hand, dissolved into ashes and been swept away on the wind that is, quite suddenly, lashing around him.

Malfoy’s pale head, when it appears from the turmoil, is only six strides away. Harry can almost touch him. As it is, he’s entirely too shell-shocked to do anything.

The skin of Malfoy’s face has the sheen of old illness over his pallor, but his eyes are mirthful and alive. Harry doesn’t think he has seen Malfoy in such good spirits. When it emerges, plump and a ripe red, his mouth is tilted in a gentle smile as well. It is so uncharacteristic of Malfoy, if it weren’t for the scars left by the gills on his slender neck, Harry would swear it is a different person entirely.

Malfoy is naked. His torso is rosy with the gooseflesh stirred by the fresh air against his damp skin. Water sluices from his shoulders, over the peaks of his pebbled nipples and into the valleys of the subtle muscle that binds him. The water sloshes around him at waist height, but Harry glimpses the tip of his erection breaking the surface.

The relief that settles around them is palatable. 

“You’re hard,” Harry can’t help but say, choking back all of the overly emotional responses rising in his chest.

“Astute as ever, Potter,” teases Malfoy, fondly. “So would you be, if you lost what I lost to fishhood for a week.”

“It wasn’t a week,” Harry argues instead of laughing, because joking is a new dynamic between them, despite the closeness they have shared in the last day, and Harry isn’t ready to transverse it yet.

“Pedantic semantics,” Malfoy jitters, flipping a careless hand. Clearly, he has no such qualms, but then if Harry had just regained his legs, he probably wouldn’t care about such small things either. “It was almost a week,” Malfoy rectifies.

“If you say so.”

They have been in each other’s company constantly for over twenty-four hours without a hint of awkwardness or their past rivalry raising its ugly head, but now the tension of the future makes itself known. Harry allows himself a self-deprecating smile, shrugging, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

It’s all rather ludicrous really. He’s standing in a pond with a naked - and aroused - Draco Malfoy having recently broken a curse via kiss. If only Ron could see him now.

The thought of the cure is another complication. Harry’s life has been suffused with prophecy after prophecy. As a fresh-faced wizard sat for the first time in the Great Hall, Harry would have said that fate was a load of bull-crock, and that he made his own future with free will and a spot of luck. Now, as a seasoned Auror and Skeeter-proclaimed Savior, who has seen his fair share of prophecies come to fruition, he’d say there is a reason they are recorded and stored at the ministry - even if ninety percent of seers are charlatans.

Malfoy’s erection bounces in the water, and Harry is upon him before he can think better of it, twisting and dragging Malfoy until he has him spread out on the grassy bank. Malfoy’s yap of surprise is swallowed by Harry’s tongue and the wet mashing of their mouths. 

He relieves the pressure, keeps their skin apart for a brief moment, meets Malfoy’s stare. Then fingers are in his hair, painful, pulling him insistently back down. Malfoy is cold to the touch, his skin slippery when Harry tries to grasp him.

Wherever Malfoy is concerned, all Harry feels is desperation. To win, to succeed, to better one another. Now is no different. 

Malfoy is as ferocious in this context as he is in any other, his teeth biting into Harry’s mouth when he isn’t sucking Harry’s soul out by his tongue. One of his hands is caught in Harry’s hair, tangling and ripping at the roots. Where his fingers cannot grip, his nails scratch, leaving red welts along Harry’s skin.

Harry retaliates by grasping the only place on Malfoy his slippery palm can catch and squeezing, until a shrill howl blasts from Malfoy’s throat. He shoves Malfoy, bodily sliding him further up the bank and throwing one of his slick legs over his shoulder, bending him in half. 

Malfoy snarls feraly, grasps a willow vine in each hand and - whip cord muscles straining in his arms and torso for Harry’s viewing pleasure - hoists himself from the pond until Harry is faced with the firm muscle of his quivering stomach.

Harry is on him immediately, fire burning in his limbs. His lips are soft on Malfoy’s thigh as he dips down to scent him, taking in the musk of his arousal and the freshness of the water and the salt gathering from the droplets of sweat that are mixing with the drying water.

What he glances of Malfoy’s cock before he swallows it down, is all heated red and shaking eagerness. He is hard as rock on Harry’s tongue and probing at his throat. And Harry thinks, as he stares along Malfoy’s body, that he is marvellous like this, hips thrusting jerkily, arse clenching rhythmically and back bowing off the ground.

He slides back along Malfoy’s cock, slicking him, and then glides back as far as he can, fingers pressing bruises into Malfoy’s bony hips and ignoring the wetness gathering in his eyes. His own hips are canting, without his permission, rutting his own hardness against Malfoy’s bare leg like a teenager discovering his hand. The drenched material of his uniform trousers and underwear is chaffing but the movement is too perfect to stop.

Desperation. Malfoy is addictive.

When Malfoy comes, with a burbled shout from his cracking vocal chords, Harry swallows it down, coughing and overwhelmed by the sense of it. He releases Malfoy’s cock and, mouthing wetly at his thigh, pistons his clothed hips against Malfoy, pursuing his own orgasm relentlessly. Malfoy’s palms find the firm cheeks of his arse, tugging Harry roughly over the edge.

For some reason, Harry is licking the sweaty crevice of Malfoy’s hip when he finally says, “Not that I’m not thrilled, but would you care to enlighten me as to what’s going on?”

“Theo. Curse. Kiss,” Harry pants, completely spent, tongue numb and throat sore. He withdraws his tongue and stares up at Malfoy, chin propped on one of his thighs and hands stroking down the other where it is still nestled by his ear.

“You bounce back fast, don’t you, Potter. But I should warn you, I'm nobody’s rebound.” Malfoy draws his fingertip across one of Harry’s eyebrows, his own set low and pensive. Then tracks a path down his cheek and smudges at the drops of moisture around his mouth. “Harry."

The conversation lulls while they both consider - Malfoy rolling the name around on his tongue, and Harry listening to the echo of his name. Then Harry murmurs into Malfoy's skin, "Nah, sounds weird."

"You'll always be 'Potter'," Malfoy agrees solemnly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much for reading. I'd really appreciate any thoughts or comments. And if you could go leave my beautiful artist some love I'd be eternally grateful 'cos she deserves it!!
> 
> Raven


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